Sometimes you just have to write. Even if you are not sure what you want to say, still the words beckon you.
To know they are still there.
To feel you are alive.
To try to grasp the eternal before the mundane manages to sweep it away.
To not lose touch with your heart again.
Two short weeks ago, I sat at the symphony, awaiting the performance of a piece I had long loved but never experienced in person. I watched as the stage began to fill with instruments and players and singers, until every available space was filled. The sheer size of the choir and orchestra in front of me caused my heart to skip a beat.
It was like the anticipation of a first kiss.
And when the timpani and gong pounded their first beat, the voices soared, the instruments sang – I was pulled into a wall of sound with a force that caused my dormant heart to spring to life again.
This is why I must write. Because with the absence of music and poetry and mesmerizing words, passion slumbers inside me. And I do not want her to slumber any longer. I want her to burn. I want to brush up against the wonder of the eternal, to see something majestic created from dust, for my emptiness to explode with color and sound and motion.
I will reach for the words chasing me, find my voice, find my song, find my heart.